


Watch my mouth

by lucylupin



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Drinking, Human Disaster Freddy Newandyke, M/M, drunken confessions of your wedding ring actually being fake, flirting while undercover with a guy you're supposed to put behind bars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26394160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucylupin/pseuds/lucylupin
Summary: Freddy invites Larry up to his apartment after a taco date and a night of drinking in a bar.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 64





	Watch my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo i'm back on my resdog bullshit after almost half a year of silence. originally this was supposed to be part of my multichapter [key to the highway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483399/chapters/53723536) (of which i expect to post a second chapter soon) but i decided to change routes with that one and eliminated the scene, and since it was already written and it kinda worked on its own i decided to post it here. thanks to [elio](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/chiropracting) for giving me reservoir dogs worms again. enjoy!  
> 

Freddy didn’t remember the stairs of the building being so steep and so damn hard to climb, but then it’s the first time he’s come back to this apartment being this drunk. The single naked lightbulb is cracking and blinking in the hallway when Freddy reaches the landing and points to his doorway, fumbling inside his pocket for his keys. He notices, perhaps for the first time since he moved in, that he doesn’t have a doormat, wonders if Larry is noticing too. He throws a sheepish smile over his shoulder as he opens the door. 

“Just give me a minute.”

He kicks off his shoes in the entryway and then stumbles through the dark apartment, tidying and putting things out of sight as he goes, trying to make the place look as neat as possible. He doesn’t turn on the lights, only a small lamp in the living room that fills the space with a soft warm glow, bright enough to see the edges of things but not to make up any details. If he had to face Larry now in full light he might have a heart attack. He throws all the half-empty take out containers he can find in a big trash bag and then unloads his overflowing ashtray there too, leaves the bag hidden under the kitchen sink. A t-shirt from the back of a chair, another from the couch, a pair of socks on the floor; he collects what's lying around and goes to put it all in the laundry basket, and as he pauses in the bedroom he looks around, unsure. There’s a part of him trying to warn him that he shouldn’t even be thinking about this, but his head is spinning, feels like a fishbowl full of little clownfish that are drowning in alcohol and the message must not be getting through clear enough, because he starts debating whether or not he should change the sheets. But he doesn’t, because they must be clean enough, because Larry has already been waiting outside for five minutes and nothing is gonna happen anyways.

He is about to invite him in, his hand already on the doorhandle, when he remembers the thick book full of mugshots sitting on his living room table and he freezes in place. _Fuck_. He walks back, picks it up with both hands and takes it to his bedroom; there’s a loose wood plank in one of the drawers with a small gap inside, just big enough for the book. He slides it in, his heart beating heavy in his chest, then puts the board back and walks to the entrance.

Opening the door feels like a betrayal, but he can’t tell if it's to Holdaway, to Larry or to himself. He really needs another beer.

“Well man, this is it…,” his voice sounds unsure as he makes a vague gesture toward the inside of the apartment, furniture silhouetted against the dim light of the lamp, shadows hiding the mess on each surface. He turns around and walks to the kitchen, not waiting to check if Larry is coming inside. He retrieves two cans of beer from the fridge, takes a big gulping swig out of one and then goes out to the living room holding both. Larry is standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets as he looks around with a half-smile on his lips.

“Here,” he offers the unopened can to Larry but doesn’t look at his face, then takes two steps back to lean against the wall.

“You have a nice place,” Larry’s voice is playful, almost amused. 

“It’s not uh, I mean…” Freddy looks around, cringes at the sight of his comic book posters and figurines, and looks back down. “I don’t take care of it much. Sorry for the mess,” he shrugs, apologetic, still not looking up to meet Larry’s eyes. If he looks up there’s no telling what he could do; he feels like he’s on the edge of losing control and doing something really stupid.

He doesn't notice Larry has moved until the man is leaning on the wall by his side. He wants to get closer, rest his throbbing head in Larry’s shoulder and ask him to tell him another one of his stories. He wants to be responsible, take a step away and tell him it’s late and he should go home. He doesn't know what he wants. So he stays still, drinking from his can and feeling the heat of the other man irradiating against his side. 

“Doesn’t your old lady help you with the housework?” Larry’s voice is hoarse as he lifts one hand and rubs his knuckles against Freddy’s, brushing for a second the ring on his hand. It feels like a full on electric current, shooting through his fingers and making his whole body shiver. 

Freddy brings his hands together, looking down and turning the ring around as he tries to calm his breath. “I don’t… it’s, y’know–,” he exhales slowly before speaking again. “It’s not real man,” he takes it out and holds it in the palm of his hand for a moment, watching how it glistens in the dim light. His voice comes out in a whisper, “‘s just a prop.” When he looks up Larry has a half-smile on his face and is cocking one brow.

“Is it now?” 

Freddy takes another swig at his can before realizing it’s empty, winces and starts walking to the kitchen again. “I need another beer… you want a beer?” His voice comes out in a squawk and his face is burning so he welcomes the rush of cold air when he kneels in front of the fridge, lets it brush his skin for a moment. He closes his eyes and sighs, trying to slow himself.

“Nah, I’m good.” Larry’s too-loud whisper sounds too close in the small kitchen, startling him. Freddy looks back to see he’s followed him in and is leaning back against the counter now, legs crossed and his free hand in his pocket. He’s in the shadows, his features are hidden in the darkness but the soft light coming from the living room outlines his figure. Freddy can make out the shape of every muscle in his arm; the strength in his posture, spine straight and shoulders rolled back; his head, slightly cocked, expression unreadable in the darkness. 

He grabs a beer from the fridge and starts to stand up, grounding himself in the biting-cold touch of the metal can and steering every thought into the sensation because if he thinks twice about what he's doing he might stop himself. So he stands up, turns around and approaches Larry with two slow steps. His legs come to stand beside the man's, one on each side, bodies a breath apart. They would touch if one of them leaned in just a bit. 

Freddy keeps his eyes down as he brings up a hand to rest on Larry’s belt, heel of the palm against the leather and fingers suspended mid-air, not quite touching _._ His other hand, more daring as it curls around the icy beer, comes up too. He brushes his knuckles against Larry’s abdomen over his shirt with a feather-light touch, feeling the gentle undulations of his muscles and the rock-hard toughness beneath. It’s a body made of steel, of strong muscle and bone and capable of doing Freddy harm if the man wanted. But he knows Larry doesn't want to hurt him.

His eyes trail lower over his body, down to the bulge between Larry’s thight. It might be wishful thinking, but he could swear it looks bigger than it did a minute ago. His mind entertains the idea of how Larry's cock might look like; might _feel_ like, hard against his hand or inside his mouth, resting on his tongue. The thought makes his whole body ablaze and a low chuckle escapes his lips. His mind is an fish tank of beer and tequilas and his thoughts are fish that can’t swim straight and are bumping into each other. 

"What's so funny, uh?” Larry asks.

“Nothing, man,” Freddy is giggling now, and has to rest his forehead on Larry’s shoulder to keep his head from spinning. He catches the man’s scent, angles his face to follow it until his nose is brushing the skin of his neck. 

“Hey…” Larry’s voice is only a whisper, “Careful now.” 

Freddy can’t repress a smirk, his voice slurring, “I don’t wanna be careful.”

It’s Larry’s turn to chuckle now, and Freddy lifts his head to look him in the eyes, starts laughing with him like he can’t control himself.

“C’mon kid. You remember what Joe said? No gettin’ personal.”

Freddy snorts. “Fuck Joe.” 

Larry’s eyes harden and Freddy’s mind is reached by a distant thought that maybe he shouldn’t have said that. His face grows somber for a second, “Oops.” How could he just say that? How can he be so drunk that he doesn’t control his speech? He’s helpless to the giggles that escape his lips again, “I mean…” 

“Kid, I think you need to watch your mouth,” Larry smiles and his voice is playful, and Freddy can only sigh with relief and grin.

“Nah, I think _you_ need to watch _my_ mouth.” It’s obvious to Freddy that he’s lost all command over his words, so he resolves to shut the fuck up, looks down and closes his mouth intently as a fierce blush creeps up his neck. 

Larry is laughing again and shaking his head. He places a steadying hand on Freddy’s hip, just keeping him in place, but his words come out strained. “Hey, c’mon kid… we’ll talk after the job, if you want.”

But there’s not gonna be an after the job. After the job there’s only jail for Larry and a pat on the back from Holdaway. After the job there’s nothing but betrayal and grief and misery. Freddy doesn’t want to think about the after. He wants to think about now, about the weight of Larry’s hand on his waist, his heat and his scent and the smile on the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck that,” Freddy says in a low whisper as he looks up at Larry's eyes. 

And then he drops to his knees.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked that! should i write an E rated second chapter? would anyone be interested in that? also i welcome any kind of comment or criticism, please go off in the box below ☟ and find me on [tumblr](https://fritzllang.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
